


the best thing about being a woman is the prerogative to have a little fun

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Genderswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mesut has a recurring problem, and Sami helps him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the best thing about being a woman is the prerogative to have a little fun

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to acchikocchi for beta-ing. originally posted to my lj.

Sami drops Mesut off at his house after practice, and Mesut stands in the street for ten minutes, talking to Sami through the open car window, until someone driving down the street honks at them. Sami honks back, but Mesut says his goodbyes and waves to Sami, jogging up the front steps to his door. He lets himself in, takes a long shower, calls his mom. It’s just another day.

He wakes up the next morning feeling wrong. His balance is off; he trips over his own feet on the way to the bathroom, and his chest feels strange. He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror.

“What the fucking fuck,” he says, panic rising. He has boobs - not big ones, but they’re definitely there, the fabric of his t-shirt clinging to them. He pulls off his boxers, and his dick’s gone, instead he has a fucking vagina. He pulls his shirt off and stares at himself. He’s the same height, he’s even wearing the same earrings he put in the night before. His hair looks the same. He still has a scar on his arm, where he got stitches when he was a kid after a bike accident. It’s just that his body that’s different. It curves in just below his ribcage, and his hips are wider than they used to be.

Mesut barely makes it to the toilet before he throws up. Then he goes back to his bedroom, not looking in the mirror, and grabs his biggest sweatshirt and a baggy pair of sweatpants, pulls them on, and then gets back into bed, pulling his covers up to hide his body. Then he calls Sami.

“I can’t come to practice today,” he says, “I just threw up.”

“Are you ok?” Sami asks, “want me to come by?”

“No, no,” Mesut says, hurriedly, “I just don’t feel like myself. I’ll be fine tomorrow.” He bites his lip. “Just, um, can you tell Mourinho? I don’t really feel up to it.” He feels disgusted with himself. He digs his nails into his palm. “Please.”

“Of course,” Sami says, “I’ll take care of it. Feel better, ok?”

Mesut spends the day in bed, trying not to think about anything. He doesn’t want to look at himself. His body has always been his ally, and now, for the first time, he feels powerless, trapped in it.

Sami comes by after practice, knocks on the door and yells.

“Mesut, I know you’re in there. I have a SARS mask so you can let me in and not infect me. Come on, Mesut!” Mesut staggers to the door, wrapped in his quilt over his sweats.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Mesut says to Sami, “you can’t, please.”

“What are you even talking about?” Sami asks, stepping into the house. Then he looks at Mesut for a second. “Wait, Mesut, are you...?”

Mesut drops his quilt and nods. Even under the sweatshirt, he knows Sami must be able to see the new curves of this body, and Mesut hates it.

“What the fuck,” Sami says, pulling Mesut into a tight hug. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” Mesut says, hugging him back, Sami’s touch friendly and familiar. “It just. Happened. When I was asleep. So maybe tomorrow I’ll be back to normal.”

“I hope so,” Sami says. “Hey, come on, now that I’m here, let’s play Call of Duty.”

\--

The next day, Mesut wakes up. He immediately puts a hand on his chest and curses, then lets his head flop back.

“Fuck,” he mutters, exhausted and depressed. He texts Sami - “still sick, sry” - and goes back to sleep.

He wakes up around noon. He doesn’t want to take a shower or go to the bathroom, doesn’t want to look at himself. Instead, he goes down to his kitchen and eats a bowl of cereal, forcing himself to eat even though he feels nauseous. He finds a pack of cigarettes in the back of one of his drawers, and smokes them, one after another. He’s never going to be able to play football again, he’s fucking stuck like this, so he might as well give himself cancer and ruin his lung capacity.

Sami comes back again after practice. He brings a bottle of whiskey. “For me,” he explains, with a tired smile. They sit next to each other on the couch, and Sami takes a drink out of the bottle.

“I hate this,” Mesut says, “I just want this to stop.”

“I wish I could help,” Sami says, miserable, taking another drink.

“You are helping. Just. By being here,” Mesut tells him. “And if, if I never change back, Sami, will you -”

“No, I’m going to abandon you forever,” Sami says, rolling his eyes. “What do you think? You’re my friend, Mesut. Of course I’m here for you.”

Mesut reaches over the grabs the bottle from him.

“I thought you didn’t -” Sami says.

“I’m trapped in this fucking body,” Mesut says, “so the normal rules do not apply right now.”

“Sounds logical,” Sami says, handing over the bottle. Mesut takes a long sip, even though it burns.

After that they pass the bottle back and forth, not talking. Mesut’s minds feels muzzy and his body feels loose. He leans into Sami. “What am I going to do?” he asks, quietly.

“I don’t know,” Sami tells him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. It’s a friendly gesture, and it reminds Mesut of being on the pitch, adrenaline fueling him, the crowd roaring in his ears. He misses it fiercely, already, and the knowledge he’s never going to play again sticks in his chest. He drinks more whiskey. He kisses Sami. Sami kisses back, and Mesut climbs onto his lap, wrapping his arms around Sami’s neck and grinding down. He feels awkward, like a teenager, but he can’t make himself stop.

Sami pulls back. “What the hell, Mesut?”

Mesut swallows. “If. If I’m going to be like this forever, I might as well get used to it,” he says. One of Sami’s hands is holding his hip. Sami’s fingers are smooth against the exposed skin there, and the sensation anchors Mesut.

“By fucking me,” Sami says. “Are you. Do you want this?”

“Yes,” Mesut says, before he can even think.

They end up on the floor, Mesut’s legs wrapped around Sami’s waist, kissing. Sami sits back, reaching into his discarded pants to grab his wallet. He pulls a condom out.

“You sure?” he asks again, and Mesut nods, not sure how else to answer. He feels hot and desperate. Sami leaves one hand on Mesut, running it up and down his legs, gently. He puts the condom on and leans forward, his mouth brushing against Mesut’s ear. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs, and kisses Mesut’s pulse while he slides in.

Mesut stiffens. It hurts, at first, but not as badly as he worried it would. He opens his hips more, rubbing his foot against Sami’s calf and shifting his weight so he can press his mouth to Sami’s. Sami fucks him gently, makes Mesut arch his back trying to get him deeper. Mesut runs his nails down Sami’s back and Sami says, “Mesut,” desperately. Neither of them last very long.

Afterward, Sami rolls to lie next to him, their skin sticking together with sweat. Mesut feels a shift within himself and looks down. His breasts are gone, his body is flat and male again. Mesut scrambles to cover himself. Sami looks as surprised as Mesut is.

“You’re. You’re. Again,” Sami says, gesturing towards Mesut’s dick.

“Oh thank God,” Mesut says, pulling his pants on. He’s blushing, can’t even stand to look at Sami.

“I should go,” Sami says. Mesut doesn’t disagree, just covertly watches him dress.

“So, Mesut,” Sami begins, but Mesut shakes his head, cutting him off. He wants to go on a long run after two days of being pent up, wants to revel in his own body again. He wants to forget how Sami looked at him, how Sami touched him, everything.

“Can we not. Talk about that?” he asks, and Sami looks at him for a long second and then nods, reaches out to mess with Mesut’s hair.

“Whatever you want,” he says, then he’s gone.

\--

Mesut wakes up to his alarm and stumbles into the hotel bathroom to shower before breakfast with the team. He’s still sleep-muddled, so he manages to turn on the water, pull off his shirt and boxers, and step under the spray before he realizes.

“Fuck,” he says, looking down at his breasts, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He turns off the water and studies himself in the mirror. Sure enough, his curves are back and his dick is gone. He grabs a towel so he won’t drip on the carpet and goes to get his phone.

“What do you want?” Sami asks, “do you even know what time it is?”

“We have a team meeting in twenty minutes,” Mesut tells him, “and I. I need you to come to my room.”

Sami must be able to tell; Mesut’s voice is high and wrong, betraying him.

“Mesut, are you -?” Sami asks.

“Just please come,” Mesut says, sitting down on the bed. He’s shivering, and he hunches in on himself, wrapping his arms around his slim legs.

“I’m on my way,” Sami says, hanging up. Mesut puts the phone done on the bedside table and shuts his eyes, his stomach tightening and he can’t tell if it’s anxiety or lust.

There’s a knock on the door, and Sami’s calling, “Mesut, Mesut, are you ok?”

Mesut doesn’t bother responding to that. He wraps the towel around himself and opens the door.

Sami pushes into the room and locks the door behind him. They’re close to each other, Sami still in his boxers and a threadbare t-shirt, barefoot.

“You ok?” he asks again, putting a hand on Mesut’s slim shoulder. Mesut shakes his head, wrapping his arms around Sami and burying his face in his shoulder. Sami’s chest is broad and solid.

Sami runs a hand through Mesut’s hair and then rests it on the back of Mesut’s neck. “It’s going to be ok,” he says. Mesut snorts into Sami’s chest - that’s easy for Sami to say, he’s not the one trapped in this body for god knows how long, what if it’s for good this time, what if he never changes back and he’s trapped like this and -

“Sami, please,” Mesut says, to keep himself from panicking, “we don’t have much time. I need you to. I need you.”

“Ok,” Sami says, bringing his other hand to rest on the small of Mesut’s back. “Ok.” He takes a slow breath. “Are you sure you want- ?”

Mesut bites his lip. He’s leaning into Sami’s touch and he’s ashamed and afraid and really, really turned on. He wants to change back but he also just wants this, wants Sami’s hands on him, has wanted it for weeks. He wishes Sami hadn’t asked, had just pushed him up against the door and let Mesut wrap his legs around his waist and -

“Please,” Mesut says, “please.”

Sami leans down and kisses him, slow and careful, his hands on Mesut’s hips and they don’t have time for this. Mesut reaches down and loosens his towel, letting it fall away from him. Sami breaks the kiss and steps back, hitting the door.

“Right,” he says, his eyes on Mesut’s chest, “we don’t have much time.” He licks his lips, and it makes Mesut’s chest hurt a little. Then they’re kissing again, and Sami is pushing him back to the bed. Mesut sits back against the head board, panting, and Sami kneels in front of him, kissing him and kissing him, one hand palming Mesut’s breast and one gripping his hip.

“I don’t have a condom,” Sami says, pulling himself back, his lips swollen and his pupils wide. His shirt is still on, and so are his boxers, although Mesut can see he’s hard. His rubs Mesut’s nipple and Mesut lets out a little moan, heat pooling between his legs. He feels achingly empty.

“Sami,” Mesut says, somewhere between desperate and furious, “are you. No. Fucking do something.”

“I think I like it better when you beg,” Sami mutters, leaning down to press kisses to Mesut’s stomach, his beard rough and perfect. His hands are spreading Mesut’s legs, and Mesut leans his head back and buries his hands in Sami’s hair and Sami’s mouth trails lower and lower. Mesut bites his lip so he’ll stay quiet, Sami’s beard scratching his inner thighs, and everything is too intense so Mesut closes his eyes and lets himself go.

When Mesut’s heart rate slows, he opens his eyes. He looks down and sees he’s back in his own body - flat, well-muscled chest, and Mesut has never been happier to see his dick. He laughs, relief and post-coital glow mixing. Sami is resting his head against Mesut’s leg, his boxers around his knees, jerking himself off. Mesut’s hand is still tangled in his hair. Sami looks up at Mesut, his eyes dark and desperate, and his hand speeds up.

“Sami,” Mesut says, confused, because why would Sami want - now - after - and Sami comes shaking against Mesut’s leg.

They’re both quiet for a moment, then Sami pushes himself upright. “Can I borrow your shower?” he asks, and Mesut nods, not knowing what else to say. Sami stands and strips off his shirt, lets his boxers drops to the floor. Mesut watches him, transfixed.

“Thanks,” Mesut says, since Sami isn’t going anywhere; he’s just standing there, his eyes on Mesut.

“Don’t mention it,” Sami shakes his head and laughs ruefully, and then steps into the bathroom, leaving Mesut alone and confused.

His phone buzzes on the night stand. It’s a next from Sergio: Where r u? ur late for breakfast

“Fuck,” he mutters, grabbing clothes out of his open suitcase. “Sami, hurry, we’re going to be late!”

“Us being late is what worries you?” Sami calls back over the water of the shower, “really?” and Mesut laughs.

\--

The next time, Mesut wakes up in the middle of the night because he has to go to the bathroom. He knows the second he sits up in bed, his balance off. He runs a hand over his shirt in the dark just to be sure, feels the swell of his breasts. He flips on the light and goes to find his phone. It’s late, around 2 am, and Mesut feels suddenly and horribly guilty. He can’t keep running to Sami, dragging him out of bed just to...deal with this. This is his problem - he’s the one trapped in this body, so he can get himself out of it. How hard can it be?

He heads to the bathroom - he still has to fucking pee. He sits down on the toilet and almost falls in because the seat’s up.

“Fuck this,” Mesut mutters, standing and putting the seat down. He swears to God, if this only ends soon he’ll never leave the seat up again in his life. Peeing takes forever too, which is another reason to hate this body.

Once Mesut’s washed his hands, he walks back to his bed. He leaves the light on, pulls his underwear off. He thinks about getting his laptop and watching some porn, but he doesn’t want to draw this out, just wants to get himself off and get back to normal.

He reaches his hand down between his legs. It’s not that different from fingering a girl, just the angle, and the fact that it’s him down there. Which Mesut guesses makes it a lot different. Freaking out is not really conducive to making himself come, Mesut reminds himself.

He levers himself upright and grabs his lube from his nightstand, gets a little on his fingers before he puts his hand back between his legs. That helps. Running his other hand over his nipples, like Sami did helps too, and Mesut closes his eyes, pictures Sami coming up to him after practice, wet from the shower. He’d push Mesut up against the wall, kiss the back of his neck and run a hand down Mesut’s stomach, his nails digging into Mesut’s abs just a little. Then he’d take hold of Mesut’s cock and start jerking him off, slow but speeding up, and Mesut would grind back against Sami and -

Mesut comes, arching his back, and pushes his fingers deeper into himself, everything else distant. He lies still for, letting his heartbeat slow, then he wipes his fingers on the sheet and sits up.

He’s still in the wrong body. But.

“This isn’t happening,” Mesut says to himself, then goes to get his phone. He hates that he’s doing this, but he needs Sami since he - he can’t spend another minute in this body.

\--

“So,” Sami says the next morning, when they wake up next to each other.

“So,” Mesut says, pulling the covers up. It’s stupid to feel self-conscious, since Sami saw him naked just last night, when Mesut basically begged Sami to come over and fuck him. Which. Awkward.

“Sorry about calling you,” Mesut says, “but I tried jerking off - well not jerking off but - anyway and that didn’t work so I kind of. Needed some help.”

Sami laughs, but not in a mean way, and reaches over to ruffle Mesut’s hair. “You don’t need to apologize. I know it sucks. And I’m not,” and Sami’s blushing, what the hell, “I’m not complaining about. Well. Anyway.”

“We need to figure this out,” Mesut says, “because if I can’t, um, take care of it myself, what am I going to do if you’re not around?”

Sami leans back in bed, and Mesut can’t help but watch his chest rise and fall. “I didn’t think of that. Does it, um, work with other people?”

“I don’t know,” Mesut says, sharply, “it’s only happened three times. And you’ve. All of them.”

“Well, you could experiment next time,” Sami says, then winces. “If there’s a next time. And if you want to.” He looks down at his knees, under the covers.

“Yeah,” Mesut says, although he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t know how to say to Sami that it’s bad enough to lose control of himself and his body like this, but trusting it to someone else, someone’s whose not Sami, someone who didn’t know him and who would just be - it seems like a violation on top of another violation. “I guess we’ll see.”

“Until then,” Sami says, getting out of bed and pulling on his discarded pants, “we google it!”

“What, are you just going to type in ‘I turned into a girl until I got my best friend to have sex with me’?” Mesut asks. “Because that’s definitely going to explain it all.”

“Shut up, like you have a better idea,” Sami says, walking off to find Mesut’s computer.

“Clear my search history afterwards,” Mesut calls after him, and then goes to get dressed.

\--

Two weeks later, Mesut heads over to Sami’s house after practice to play FIFA. They end up watching Iron Man with Spanish subtitles, curled together on the couch.

“Why did we even do that?” Sami asks. “It’s like two in the morning and we have practice tomorrow.” His arm is slung over Mesut’s shoulder, his fingers stroking Mesut’s arm absently.

“Just because you’re afraid of Mourinho,” Mesut says, “doesn’t mean we have to stop living our lives.”

“You’re afraid of him too,” Sami points out.

“I have a healthy respect for him,” Mesut corrects, yawning.

“Old before your time,” Sami jokes, standing and stretching. His shirt rides up, and Mesut sees a slice of his stomach. He wants to reach out and touch it. He doesn’t.

“Want to spend the night? It’s kinda late,” Sami offers. Mesut stands, but that brings him too close to Sami; they’re chest to chest.

“Sure,” Mesut says, “I don’t really feel like driving.” They look at each other, like they’re both waiting for something, and Mesut doesn’t know what.

“I’ll just take the guest room then,” Mesut says, confused, unsure of what’s being offered and afraid of wanting too much. “I’ll um, see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Sami says, his smile dimming, but only slightly. “In the morning.”

Mesut shakes Sami awake at around nine. “It happened again,” Mesut says, miserable.

“What, Mesut?” Sami says. Then: “Oh.” He gives Mesut a long look that makes Mesut want to pull his t-shirt down to cover his legs. He reaches out and grabs hold of one of Mesut’s hands, pulling Mesut in toward Sami. Mesut comes willingly.

“How do you want it?” Sami asks, which is in absurd question. Mesut doesn’t think about them fucking like this, with Mesut in the wrong body.

“The shower,” Mesut says, because why the hell not.

“Ok,” Sami says, standing pulling Mesut’s shirt off. “Ok,” he says again, into the crook of Mesut’s shoulder. He’s running his hands up and down Mesut’s sides, his hands broad.

Sami walks Mesut into the bathroom, kissing him up against the door while the water warms up. Mesut’s only in his boxers, and he hooks a leg around Sami so he has better leverage. The bathroom’s already steaming up when Sami pulls away, helping Mesut take his boxers off and pushing him into the shower. One of Sami’s hands is between Mesut’s legs, stroking, and Mesut grabs Sami’s shoulders and shuts his eyes. Sami’s chest is slippery and Mesut braces his hips against the shower wall and sucks water off of Sami’s collar bones. Sami moves his hands up to either side of Mesut’s head, surrounding him.

Sami slides into his gently. The sound of the water falling drowns out the little noises he mist be making. The wall is cold against Mesut’s back, and Sami is burning hot. Mesut feels light-headed, has to blink water out of his eyes so he can watch Sami, tan and muscled, his eyes fixed on Mesut.

Sami comes first, pulling out and splattering Mesut’s stomach before the water washes it away. Then he reaches back between Mesut’s legs. Mesut turns his head and leans against Sami’s bracing arm, panting, and comes.

\--

“You good to go?” Sami asks. Mesut nods. He’s wearing an old sweater and a pair of track pants, because that’s what fits on this body. He almost looks like his old self, except the sweater clings to him on top and hangs loose once his waist pinches in.

“If you need help or whatever, get me, ok?” Sami says, and Mesut nods again, miserable. And then Sami’s coming over to him, hand on his shoulder.

“You really don’t need to do this,” Sami tells him. “I.” He stops. “I don’t mind,” he says.

Mesut shrugs. “I want to know um. If it only works with you.” He looks up at Sami, and it’s absurd to him, that everything about him looks so different but he still feels exactly the same.

“Ok then,” Sami says, and he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying this either, which is some kind of consolation. “Let’s go.”

Sami picks the most crowded club they can find, and skips the line by flashing his smile and signing a few autographs. Mesut trails behind him, mostly unnoticed. Once they’re inside, the music is way too loud and Sami has to pull Mesut into him, his lips brushing Mesut’s ear, so that he can be heard.

“I’ll be at the bar,” Sami says, “find me if you need me.” He gives Mesut a kiss on the cheek, gentle, and runs a hand through Mesut’s hair. “Be careful.” Then he’s gone.

Mesut heads to the dance floor, and in the crowd someone grabs him. He turns, and it’s a woman - pretty, in a short-haired and heavily pierced kind of way. She grins at him and pulls him in close, her hands on his ass. She’s a little shorter than him, but dancing together like this her breasts keep brushing his, and Mesut is suddenly very aware he’s not wearing a bra.

“Um,” he says, since she’s starting to kiss his neck and Mesut thinks he’s about ten minutes from lesbian sex, “I’m not sure this will work.”

“Why not?” she purrs, and Mesut’s hands are on her hips. Mesut looks around, but he can’t see Sami anywhere, can’t see anything but the press of the dance floor.

Her hands are slipping under his sweater, and she has long nails which she runs lightly up his side, stopping just short of his breasts. And fuck it, Mesut’s here to get laid and maybe it doesn’t need to be a guy - there’s only one way to find out.

“No reason,” Mesut says, kissing her.

They’re in a dark corner, and she’s got a hand down Mesut’s pants when someone comes up to them.

“Shit, Sara, finally,” the person says, and Mesut manages to stop making out with the woman (Sara?) long enough to realize it’s another woman, with dark long hair. She gives Mesut a embarrassed little smile. “Sorry, I won’t do this but Em’s passed out in the bathroom and I need help getting her home.”

Sara rolls her eyes at the woman, and takes her hands off Mesut, sighing. “Fine, fine, but you owe me big time.” She turns back to Mesut and gives him one last, long kiss.

“Maybe next time, sweetie,” she tells him, and then she and the other woman are gone. Mesut stands for a second, so turned on he can barely think straight, then fixes his hair and readjusts his sweater.

“Hey baby,” a man says, drunk and too loud, right next to Mesut, “that was awesome. When she comes back, we should have a threesome.”

Mesut turns to look at the man - about Mesut’s height, red-faced, grinning. “Fuck off,” Mesut says, not amused.

“Come on, baby. If she’s not into it, it can be just you and me.” The guy’s up way too close, and Mesut’s angry. The music at this place sucks, he’s hot, tired and horny and suddenly hooking up with someone random seems like a terrible plan. He just wants to find Sami and go, but this asshole is grabbing his arm, brushing his hand against the side of Mesut’s boobs.

So Mesut punches him. It’s not even a very good punch, the crowd around them limiting Mesut’s range of motion, but it’s still fucking satisfying, and the guy goes down like he’s looking for a red card.

The crowd parts for him after that, and Mesut can’t help smile a little bit.

He finds Sami a few minutes later, sitting at the bar by himself.

“I see you haven’t solved your problem,” Sami says, “what happened?” He’s giving Mesut a worried look, and fiddling with his drink.

Mesut sits down next to him. “Some lesbian cockblocked me and then someone tried to feel me up so I punched him out.”

“Ah,” Sami says, “I see.” He smiles, leaning back on his stool. “Want to head home?”

Mesut shrugs. “Not really. The sooner I get out of this body, the better.”

“Well then, shouldn’t you get back out there?” Sami asks, taking a sip of his drink.

“Or,” Mesut says, “you could save me some time.”

Sami spits his drink out. “Which way to the bathrooms?”

“Follow me,” Mesut says, grabbing his hand and tugging him through the crowd.

\--

After that, it starts getting worse. Mesut wakes up from dreams he can’t remember, turned on and in the wrong body. He’s transforming almost nightly - Sami starts staying over to save him the trouble of speeding to Mesut’s house for frantic booty calls before practice. That makes the mornings Mesut changes easier; he just walks to the guest bedroom and slides into bed next to Sami, running his hand over the firm line of Sami’s chest until Sami rolls over and kisses him.

It’s terrible. Mesut goes to bed at night terrified of waking up wrong, and the nights he doesn’t dream about solid hands and a beard scratching between his leg he wakes up from nightmares about never changing back. He has to go into the bathroom and look at himself in the mirror after those, reassure himself that’s he’s still him - broad shoulders, no curves, his dick.

But at the same time, Mesut can’t help but love the sex. His house is quiet in the morning, light filtering in through the curtains as he pads into Sami’s room. They fuck slowly, Sami barely moving in Mesut. They kiss, open-mouthed, until Mesut lets his head roll back and Sami bites his jawline, gently, muttering endearments. Sami speeds up little by little, until Mesut is begging him to just fucking let him come, and then Sami kisses him through his climax, before pulling out and finishing himself off as Mesut changes back.

Then they go to practice and don’t talk about it, but they stretch together and Sami’s hands on Mesut’s leg make him flash back, except in his mind there’s no uncertainty, no wrongness, his body is his own and Sami still wants him and - Jose yells at them to switch partners, and Mesut’s blushing.

Mesut runs himself ragged in practice that day, stays late with Cristiano afterwards running drills together until the sun sets. He drives himself home, eats alone, showers quickly and falls into bed. It doesn’t help. He wakes up that morning and lies miserable in bed, making himself wait for an hour before he calls Sami, anxious with anticipation.

Sami picks up on the first ring. “On my way,” he says, before Mesut’s even said a word.

Smai lets himself into the house and comes to Mesut’s room while Mesut is still lying in bed. He leans against the doorframe, smiling.

“You look terrible,” he tells Mesut.

“Go die,” Mesut tells him, without real malice. He’s nervous, his palms sweating, his stomach turning. He bites his lips.

“Is something wrong?” Sami asks, coming to sit next to him. He touches Mesut hesitantly on the shoulders. Mesut can barely look at him.

“I want to. Can I - ?” Mesut can’t even finish the question, so he pushes Sami back on the bed instead, pulls his shirt off and kisses his way down Sami’s chest. Sami winds his fingers in Mesut’s hair, but when Mesut tugs at Sami’s boxers, Sami makes a little gasping noise and says “You don’t have to, really.”

Mesut looks up at him. Sami’s eyes are wide and black and he’s panting. “I want to,” Mesut says, and goes down on him.

“Mesut,” Sami warns, tugging at Mesut’s hair, “Mesut, I’m - ”

Mesut lets Sami’s dick slide out of his mouth and sits back. He barely gets a hand on Sami before Sami’s coming, splashing the sheet and Mesut’s hand. He looks incredible, tan and splayed out on Mesut’s bed, his chest heaving. It goes straight to Mesut’s dick. To his dick.

“What the fuck,” Mesut says, looking down. He’s back in his own body, hard, and he wants nothing more than to push up against Sami and kiss him until he comes. He stands up, ashamed of himself, ready to go finish off in the bathroom and then -

Sami blinks up at him. “Come back,” he says, sitting up and pulling Mesut down on top of him, kissing him and running a hand down over the curve of Mesut’s ass. “I need to take care of you too.”

“Ok, ok,” Mesut says, and lets Sami roll him over and jerk him off, his hands firm and rough, until Mesut comes, content in his own body and pressed against Sami.

\--

“Do you,” Sami asks, “when you’re um, in the other body, do you. Do you change?”

Mesut shakes his hand, curled post-coital against Sami, running a hand over his chest. “Just the outside. The real stuff, what I want and how I think, that’s um, it’s always the same.”

“So you want to suck my dick,” Sami says, his voice neutral.

“Yeah,” Mesut says. “Um, do you mind?”

Sami laughs. “I’m actually pretty ok with that.”

“What about you?” Mesut asks, his heartbeat speeding up, afraid to hope.

“I want you, Mesut,” Sami says. “I don’t care about. About which body you’re in.” He pulls Mesut closer to him, and Mesut snuggles in.

“Good,” Mesut says, “because I think that um. That as long as we keep having sex I’ll stop changing.”

“Oh thank god,” Sami says, “because Mesut I lo - because you’re great and all, but frankly it’ll be a relief to be able to have sex at night sometimes.”

“Or in the afternoon,” Mesut tells him.

“Or that,” Sami agrees, kissing the top of his head, and everything, finally, is just right.


End file.
